Shadows march across our cheeks,
stygian soldiers in an army of specters,
wielding their fists of smoke ‘cross our eyes
as we sit by the flames of their birth.
In that moment, we’re smaller than anything,
nothing but spots on the skin of the earth,
and the night is so heavy and the moon taunting-
as if the smallest shift in the air or the skies
would pull us to pieces, without any worth.
A small smile pricks your lips,
and you command my gaze away from the bleak-
away from the endless black above
that could swallow me whole in a breath’s streak.
“It’s not so bad”- your words milk the starlight,
and I think maybe it isn’t.
No, I know, we’ll be alright.